Ten and Two
by prone2dementia
Summary: On a school trip, Alex and Tom are caught in a three-way car chase through downtown Miami. The FBI and Brookland would both like some answers, but - much to their shock - it will be the CIA that provides them. Oneshot, for Talionyzero.


Tyz, I murdered your prompt, but I did include 'vainglorious', so that counts for something, right?

* * *

Ten and Two

"Faster!"

Swearing fluently, Alex stamped on the pedal, then lurched backwards as the car sped past their pursuers. Before him, the view of scattering pedestrians, dizzying high-rises, and midday traffic was distorted by the thin cracks in his windshield. Like a web, the cracks spiraled into a neat, round bullet hole.

Fortunately, it was the only bullet hole that their vehicle had sustained.

"They're catching up!"

"Tom, you are _not _helping," Alex managed through gritted teeth, his voice barely audible over the thundering engine.

"Hey, I'm just telling the truth here! Don't shoot the messenger!"

"_I'm_ not doing any shooting, but _they _certainly are."

"And that's why I'm telling you to go faster!"

"I'm doing _sixty _in _downtown Miami_. If we crash—"

"At least we'd spare them the trouble of killing us." Somehow, the escalating desperation coupled with the absolute _absurdity _of their situation rendered Tom capable of laughing hard and hysterically. "You know, I really can't believe this."

Running a traffic light and disregarding the subsequent honks, Alex took a sharp right and glanced at his friend. "Which part can't you believe?"

Tom, who was sweltering in the seat beside Alex, twisted bodily to see out the back. "All – all of this!" He gestured vaguely and grandly, first indicating the navy, blue car at their tail, and then pointing to the shocked faces that flashed past them. "You! Me! Being chased by a resurrected _clone_."

"It does sound kind of—"

"Insane?"

"—_strange, _if you put it that way."

"Ah, but you've seen stranger haven't you?" This time, Tom's laughter possessed a hint of bitter edge.

"Well." Alex merely shrugged, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "My life's just like that... Never been chased by a clone, though."

A snort. "But you've definitely been chased by girls."

The grip of the hands, placed at ten and two on the steering wheel, tightened visibly. _Girls _inevitably reminded Alex of Sabina, and although he associated her with bright smiles and Mediterranean sun, she inevitably reminded him of...unpleasant memories.

For a moment, Alex's feet sought the gas pedal unconsciously, as if to escape from the erstwhile past as well as the current pursuers. He didn't even notice the increased speed until Tom shouted:

"Slow down! What happened to not crashing?"

Coming to his senses, Alex quickly regained control. "Sorry, sorry! I was just..."

"Lost in thought?" provided the dark-haired boy. "I hope you were thinking up a plan because we won't be able to keep this up for long! Sooner or later, the police are gonna get involved."

At that, an idea sparked in Alex's mind. He shifted in his spot and pushed one hand into his pocket to pull out a thin, black mobile. The device was thrust into his friend's hands.

"Here," said Alex, "look in my contacts for the initials_ J.B_."

Tom glanced down and then back up just as quickly. "...Uh, Alex? Your phone's locked."

"Oh. Right. Smithers insisted on a password because my phone contained _sensitive information_." The last two words were said as if they had air quotes around them. "Put in three, four, zero, eight."

"Okay."

As Tom struggled with the phone, the car sped up a side street and into a different portion of downtown, shamelessly overturning trash bins that were placed too near the street. For a moment, the two lost sight of the dark vehicle behind them, but Alex's colorful language soon punctuated the end of their short-lived victory.

"Dammit, I can't lose them!"

Beside him, Tom said nothing as he scrolled through Alex's list of contacts. Upon discovering the correct entry, he frowned.

"Are you sure this number's right? It's really...long!"

Alex didn't even spare his friend a glance. "Of course, it's not an ordinary number. It connects directly to Joe Byrne, from the CIA."

"And I'm assuming he's important?"

"Yeah, fairly important."

Sensing Alex's understatement, Tom snorted, highlighted the entry, and pressed _talk_. "Should I put him on speaker?"

"I was just about to suggest that," Alex admitted with a half smile.

"What can I say? Great minds think alike."

The other scoffed and did not even deign to comment. Instead, he performed a series of complex maneuvers through a small park, taking care not to raze any unsuspecting innocents. However, drawn by the noises, most were _not _unsuspecting, for they turned their heads eagerly toward the source of the squealing tires and accelerating engines. In response, many pairs of eyes widened comically as many pairs of hands began to dial 911.

Nauseated by the abrupt turns, Tom had closed his eyes and noticed none of this; thus, neither boy spoke until a voice on the other end of the phone cut through their silence.

Terse, and with a hint of worry, the man said, "_Joe Byrne."_

"Mr. Byrne," Alex replied immediately, "this is Alex Rider."

When the name registered, Byrne exclaimed with barely concealed incredulity, "—_Alex_?"

"Hi." The greeting was almost sheepish, and hearing it, Tom tossed his friend a _look._

"_Will you hold for a moment?_"

"Of course."

From the other end, a sound of muffled voices was followed by shuffled steps.

Then, "_Sorry, I was in the middle of a meeting_."

Alex coughed, turning pink. "No, I'm sorry to bother you, but I really need your help."

"_Yes?"_

"Well, I'm, uh, in a car chase in downtown Miami."

"_...Ah. So that explains the noises."_

Pink darkened swiftly to red. "Unfortunately, yes. And this may sound a little, um, _far-fetched,_ but the two people chasing me are a clone and his handler... You can ask MI6 about my mission in Point Blank if you want more information, but what I need right now is protection."

"_From?"_

"The police," elaborated Alex, "when they inevitably get involved."

"_All right, then—_" (Inside the car, Tom marveled at Byrne's facile acceptance—the man didn't even seem surprised!) "—_Lucky for you, I am actually in Miami right now. I'll see what I can do."_

A grateful "thank you" ended their conversation, and Tom passed the phone back to its owner. As he did so, he regarded Alex oddly, until Alex swiveled in the seat to stare back at him.

"What?" the spy half-snapped, determined not to blush more. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Bypassing the question, Tom asked instead, "Who _is _Joe Byrne, exactly?"

"A, uh—" Alex blinked, flexed his hands and caused the muscles in his arms to ripple. "—an acquaintance of mine."

Suspicious, but opting to drop the matter for the time being, Tom nodded. "Can he really protect you from the police?"

"Yes. And speaking of the police..." Alex jerked his head toward the rearview mirror, and Tom took it as a cue to look up.

"Oh. _Shit." _Of course, Tom had _expected _the police to catch wind of them eventually, but the expectation hadn't prepared him for the real thing. It hadn't prepared him to see four patrol cars, all with blazing lights and wailing sirens, overtake them from every angle. "Are you planning to stop, or...?"

A small smirk sidled onto Alex's face, and Tom gulped.

"Just watch," instructed the first.

Tom did.

Two of the police cars veered toward them, trying to force them onto a curb. The car in the vanguard held a middle-aged man, and Tom could pinpoint the exact moment when the man realized he was chasing two _kids_. The expression on his face was simply priceless, and if the situation were less dire, Tom would have laughed. Nevertheless, a little smile wormed its way onto his lips and he concealed it by turning away. Behind them, the other squad seemed to be having more luck. A metal-against-metal screech informed Tom that one of the police cars had rammed into the blue sedan's rear. Immediately, it was forced onto the pavement and out of commission.

Alex released a satisfied sigh. With a deft yank of the steering wheel, he spun their car around abruptly and came to a halt. Not expecting the move, the two police vehicles skidded another hundred meters. Meanwhile, Tom was pitched forward, cursing Alex to hell.

"Warn a man, next time!" he exclaimed.

"One, you can hardly be considered a _man. _Two, with any luck, there won't _be _a next time."

"Luck?" snorted Tom, skirting around the first comment. "You're one to talk."

In the midst of their banter, they hadn't noticed the officer that had stalked up to their car, face grim and lips pinched. The officer made himself known, however, by rapping firmly on the driver's window. With his solid stance and forbidding air, he almost seemed to be expecting the worst from them. Perhaps he thought they'd make a run on foot?

Sighing, Alex unbuckled his seat belt, glanced forlornly at the bullet hole in the windshield, and then lowered the window.

"Step out of the vehicle, sir, and please keep your hands where I can see them."

When the boy complied, he was instantly seized and frisked against the sun-warmed hood. At a safe distance, onlookers were beginning to gather, making no attempts to hide their curiosity. They whispered to one another, compared notes and swapped firsthand accounts.

Blushing, Alex looked away.

The officer had finished at last, and was asking gruffly, "What is your name?"

"Alex," said the boy, gazing across at Tom, who was being subjected to similar treatment from a second policeman.

"Last name?"

"Rider," he said, a bit more reluctantly. "Alex Rider."

A pause ensued, in which Alex could picture the man frowning, lingering on the accented reply.

Finally, "Where are you from?"

"London."

Another pause.

The officer looked to his counterpart, saying, "Mike? This is getting complicated."

* * *

Side-by-side, the two FBI agents stared into the interrogation room. Unaware that he was being watched, Alex Rider sat in an uncomfortable chair, hands folded neatly and eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"He looks very..._ordinary," _commented the first agent, a tall woman named Jane Rogers.

Derek Young, the second, emitted a noncommittal noise. "Can't judge a book by its cover now, can you? I mean, how many British fourteen-year-olds can drive an American car down an American road, and still resist the police without getting killed?"

"That one can, apparently." She made to gesture at Alex but, upon hearing the door to their observation chamber open, turned instead toward the source of the sound.

Standing at the threshold was a nondescript policeman, who nodded at them politely before bowing out of the room. The man he had escorted, a suit-clad attorney carrying a briefcase, replaced him.

Adjusting his tie, the attorney voiced a greeting, "Agents."

"Mr. Bernstein?" asked Rogers.

"Yes, that's me."

Rogers and Young exchanged brief words, before the former strode toward Mr. Bernstein. "If you will follow me into the interrogation room—"

The interrogation room was designed for discomfort. Upon entering, the two blinked into the glare of harsh lighting before taking seats at cold, metal-backed chairs. Shuffling papers could be heard, interposed with the clearing of a throat.

"Alex Rider," the agent said as she studied the youth before her.

In his rumpled t-shirt and loose cargos, he truly did appear ordinary. The expression on his face was mildly curious, and he exuded civility.

His eyes, which had been examining her folder, flicked upwards when he felt her gaze. "Hi."

"I am Agent Rogers of the FBI. The man sitting next to you is Mr. Bernstein, your attorney." She cleared her throat again. "Do you know why you are being interrogated, Alex?"

Alex shrugged, a careless motion that betrayed nothing.

"Well, first of all, let's go over your rights." A sheet of paper was extracted from her folder, along with a pen from her pocket. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?"

For a long moment, he said nothing and merely stared at her, eyes unreadable; when he finally spoke, it was not with the expected acquiescence. "My housekeeper is American. Once, she joked that the line should've been: You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be mangled, misinterpreted, and misrepresented in a court of law."

The two adults exchanged perturbed glances, not knowing how to react.

After a pause, the woman tried once more, "Does that mean you understand?"

"Yeah."

The admittance came as a relief to Rogers, who had never dealt with this quaint combination of unpredictability and charm. Yes, she had interrogated petty felons. Yes, she had questioned psychopathic serial killers. But, no, she had never encountered a boy like Alex.

She moved onto the next part of his rights. "You have the right to consult with an attorney, in this case, Mr. Bernstein. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You have the right to contact your country's consulate, prior to any questioning. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us now?"

"No."

Having been lulled by his amenability, she blinked upon hearing the negative, but recovered quickly enough to attempt another strategy. "...Okay. At this time, I shall explain your situation to you." The youth did not respond, thus, she continued, "The boy discovered in the other car also claims to be Alex Rider. The man discovered with him, Andrew Belmont, is a known member of a criminal organization. We want to know your connection with them, so that we can help you."

Steady, brown eyes studied her, causing her to feel inexplicably uneasy. In an attempt to mask the sentiment, she blazed onwards:

"Please, Alex. Let us help you. Tell us why you were running away from them. There has to be a reason. You seem like a sensible boy."

"Some might disagree," he muttered under his breath.

She perked up, seizing directly at the allowance. "And why do you say that?"

"Well, beauty," he said slowly, lips twisted into a wry smile. "Or, in my case, _sensibility _is all in the eye of the beholder."

His voice, soft and pensive, rendered much confusion from the two adults. Again, they were at a loss for what to say, and in that moment, Mr. Bernstein found himself very grateful to be an attorney and not an FBI agent. Something about the boy was altogether _disquieting_, and neither Bernstein nor Rogers could pinpoint what it was.

"But as I said earlier, I don't want to speak with you," amended Alex, before changing the subject entirely. "Have you contacted my chaperones yet?"

It took a moment for Rogers to register the question. "...Yes."

"May I speak with them?"

"Yes, but only in a secure room—" Her eyes turned briefly to the one-way observation window beside them; no doubt, her partner was watching from behind it, arms folded and gaze critical. "—and in the presence of me or another FBI agent."

"That's fine. I'd like to see them now."

Able to find no reason against compliance, the agent stood from her seat and beckoned at the boy. Together, they exited into the hall, where Young was already waiting for them. Leaving behind the attorney, they ventured down dim passageways with Rogers in the lead and Young trailing behind. Caught in the middle, Alex suspected that his position was purposeful. They probably didn't want him running away.

After several turns, all of which Alex kept careful inventory, they arrived in a sparse room. Blank walls, interrupted only by an occasional grated window, enclosed upon the slate floor and long table. Sitting around it were three familiar people: Tom and two teacher chaperones.

"Alex!" exclaimed the boy, whose attention had been captured by the _click_ of the opening door. "You're here!"

Relief was evident in Tom's manner, and Alex deduced that it was because he no longer had to bear the attention alone. Now that Alex was present, the two chaperones had bigger fish to fry, a 'fish' that had been taken into custody for reckless driving, grand theft auto, and evading police.

Under ordinary circumstances, neither instructor would have been very intimidating. But Alex knew that Mr. Perez and Ms. Stewart, a very righteous English teacher and a very tolerant science teacher respectively, did not react well to troublemakers. In contrast to Tom, the two seemed all the more displeased: Mr. Perez's face was painted by an unflattering glower, and Ms. Stewart's frown appeared permanently plastered to her lips.

Realizing the amount of trouble he was in, Alex swallowed dryly. Behind him, the two agents observed this reaction with interest. Just moments earlier, he had personified calm nonchalance. Now, however...

"Ms. Stewart, Mr. Perez, I can explain," he offered meekly.

One of Mr. Perez's eyebrows arched imperiously. "Oh, _can_ you?"

Alex's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "Um—"

Silence reigned heavily over the room as everyone anticipated the explanation.

Tom was curious about how his friend would get out of this mess. After all, the situation seemed rather amusing now that he wasn't in the spotlight.

The agents were eager to learn the truth about Alex's involvement in their case, even though outright admissions were very unlikely. From Alex's prior actions, they construed that he was far too smart to incriminate himself.

The teachers were skeptical about Alex's claim at being able to justify his actions. Over the past year, his reputation had disintegrated into dust; and, by this point, they were no longer surprised at the arrest.

"—Well," said the MI6 agent at last, "when we were going down Flagler Street, Tom and I were..._separated_ from the group."

_Liar_, said his mind. In truth, they had only been a few paces behind the group when Alex had noticed Belmont and the clone. Knowing that nothing good could have come of their appearance, he had tried to slip away. Unfortunately, his plan to _'take care'_ of the problem went awry as soon as Tom detected the attempt at leaving. Worriedly, Tom had insisted that Alex stay away from danger. The insistence, being rather loud and vehement, had attracted the attentions of the aforesaid danger. From there, everything had spiraled out of control.

"Yes?" Ms. Stewart's question snapped Alex from his contemplation, and he said hastily:

"Uh. Yes. Uhm..."

"You can't explain yourself, can you?" Mr. Perez sighed, succumbing finally to impatience.

As Alex shook his head, blond hair fell across his guilty features. "I can, sir. But you wouldn't believe me."

"Why? Is it because your excuses will be as meager as the ones you tell the school, after your unaccounted absences?" Frustration was clear in the teacher's timbre.

"But the excuses are true, sir. I'm ill," protested Alex, wincing, "a lot."

"Alex, you were such a good student before your uncle's death. We understood that you needed time to grieve, but your frequent absences and insufficient excuses have become unacceptable. No one believes them anymore."

Unobtrusive, Young and Rogers were following the exchange avidly. However, as they gained more insight, they also found themselves gaining more questions. It was obvious that Alex had a reputation, but they wondered _what type?_ and _why?_

Across from them, Ms. Stewart was adding, "Please, don't think we're deaf to rumors. We hear about what you've been involved in, and despite what you may think, we only want to help—"

"Ma'am," argued a new voice, "I believe you are under quite the wrong impression."

Instantly, six pairs of eyes swiveled to see the newest entrant, who was standing in the shadows of the doorway. He was a tall African-American, with white hair atop his head, tired lines upon his face, and a worn briefcase in his hands. The way he carried himself was almost regal, but although he seemed to understand his own importance, he appeared in no way vainglorious.

Agent Young jumped to his feet, instinctively prepared for a struggle. "How did you get in here?"

A quiet, amused smile crossed over the other man's face. Stepping into the center of the room, he extracted a small card from his pocket and passed it to the FBI agents.

_Joe Byrne, _it read, _Head of the Directorate of Operations._

And in the upper corner, a CIA emblem was emblazoned, complete with shield and eagle.

"...Is this a _joke?"_

"Agent Young, I assure you this is no joke."

The two agents exchanged incredulous glances, each urging the other to say something – _anything_. Several moments passed in such a manner, before Rogers finally turned toward Byrne.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Director."

Byrne shook her proffered hand. "The pleasure is all mine." He then rounded on the British occupants, three of whom were palpably confused. "I'm Joe Byrne, head of the CIA division that deals in espionage."

Their reactions were instant: Ms. Stewart gaped. Mr. Perez stuttered. Tom fell out of his chair.

"_Alex – Rider!" _squawked the boy, clambering back up. "What – the – _hell?"_

Half-pained and half-entertained, Alex's expression was partly a grimace and partly a smile. "What?"

"What _what? _What did you mean by saying, _Joe Byrne's just _fairly _important?" _The last phrase dripped with sarcasm. "Understatement much?"

Alex looked down at his hands, swallowing a widening grin. "Yeah, maybe."

Thrusting his arms in the air, Tom seemed about to retort when Young cut him off:

"As amusing as this is, I would really like to know _why _you are here, Director."

The opinion was enthusiastically endorsed by the other three adults, who were all staring between Alex, Tom, and Byrne with mixed degrees of shock. As they all made to agree, Byrne held up a steady hand.

"Please, be patient." Opening his briefcase, he extracted a packet of papers and a handful of pens from its contents. Both were quickly distributed to the rest of the room, with Alex being the exception, of course. "I have provided you two things: a copy of the American Espionage Act and a copy of the British Official Secrets Act."

At this point, Mr. Perez looked up from his study of the papers, eyes wide and lips pale. "You – you're really being serious?"

"Unfortunately," said the CIA director. "Now, the Espionage Act details the consequences you will face, if you reveal what you learn today. The Official Secrets Act is similar, but you must sign the agreement on the last page."

A pause.

Then slowly, biting her lip in apprehension, Ms. Stewart picked up a pen and flipped to the back of her papers. She looked around at the others, before lowering her eyes to the text. A flick of the pen later, her signature was plunked onto the provided line, and the tension drained visibly from the room. Everyone else promptly followed suit, and Byrne allowed himself a small smile when they were finished.

"Thank you." He shifted in his seat, relaxing into a more comfortable position. "Now, you may not believe what I tell you, but I promise it will be the truth—"

"Wait!" Until now, Alex had been merely observing; now, however, he made himself known, "How much are you going to tell them?"

"As much, or as little, as I deem necessary," Byrne said mildly. "Do you object?"

Alex mulled over the question, facilely ignoring the men and women around him. They were impatient with suspense and itching with agitation and waiting and _waiting_ for him to say—

"...No. I trust your judgment."

Byrne smiled. "I'm glad for that." Then, to the rest of the room, he said, "Alex Rider has been keeping a secret for over a year now. He is not a sickly or delinquent boy. He is a world-renowned spy, the best that MI6 has to offer."

" – Wh – _what?" _stuttered Stewart, just as Perez exclaimed:

"That _can't_ be true!"

"And why can't it?" queried the CIA director. He looked around at the woman, whose face had turned as red as her sundress, at the man, whose skin had paled myriad degrees, and at the agents, who regarded him shrewdly and skeptically. And then at Tom Harris, whose calm acceptance piqued Byrne's interest. "Tom certainly doesn't seem surprised."

The aforementioned boy blushed. "Ah, yeah, well—"

Chuckling softly, Byrne halted his stammers. "It's all right, Tom. Quite frankly, I'm not shocked that you know the truth."

"Oh," sighed Tom, relieved that neither he nor his friend would get in trouble. "Okay."

"Okay," echoed Byrne. "As I was saying, Alex is the best that MI6 has to offer. His record is phenomenal, and he has never failed a mission." Addressing his fellow Americans, he said, "Agents, do you know what that means?"

Young answered readily, "He's made a fair share of enemies."

"More than a fair share," muttered Alex, in the background.

"Yes," Byrne agreed. "And one of those enemies ran into Alex today. That's how the car chase started. Am I right, Alex?"

Nodding, the boy tried his hardest to disregard the incredulous gazes upon him. "They had a gun, and I thought the fastest way to escape was by car."

"So you stole one," conjectured Rogers.

"...Um. I reserve my right to stay silent?"

The female snorted. "You won't be needing it. Your status protects you from all charges."

"Oh. Well, that's a relief. Does that mean I'm free to go now?"

"Not so fast," interjected Byrne, eyes sparkling in amusement. "We still need you to answer a few questions. However—" He gestured towards Tom and the two teachers. "You three are free to go. In fact, I think it would be best if you _did _go now. Will you wait outside the door until we're through with Alex?"

Disappointed but knowing that they could no longer stay, the trio stood, chorusing their acquiescence. At the door, Byrne spoke once more, causing them to stop and turn.

"Sorry, one last thing. Before you leave, I want to stress the importance of secrecy. Please, _please_, do not disclose anything that you have learned from me. To do so is to put Alex, yourself, your friends, and your family in danger." Byrne's eyes shone with sincerity. "If Alex's enemies become convinced that you have information they want, they will stop at nothing, _absolutely nothing_, to get it."

Affected by the earnest tone, Ms. Stewart and Mr. Perez gave a faint shiver of foreboding. Momentarily, it seemed almost as if the shadow of the unknown consequences had fallen across them, bringing a chill to their skin.

"We understand," Mr. Perez said finally. "But I was wondering: Shouldn't Alex's principal hear the truth, too?"

"Regrettably, that decision is up to my counterpart at MI6. I have no jurisdiction in England."

"Well... Either way, thank you for explaining to us," said Mr. Perez.

And, with that, the three exited.

There was a moment of silence, before:

"Right, then. Agents, what would you like to know?" asked Byrne.

Not missing a beat, Rogers responded, "Mostly, the identity of the boy who claims to be Alex Rider."

"Let's have Alex explain that, shall we?"

All eyes turned to the boy, and not being one to enjoy the attention, he sighed softly. "Several months ago, I investigated a man named Hugo Grief. He had made sixteen clones of himself, before altering their appearances. One of the clones was altered to look like _me_... I thought the clone had died, but apparently, he hadn't."

In both agents' minds, numerous questions battled with each other, and they didn't know which to ask first.

After a long moment, Young managed to voice the most relevant query. "How had the clone gotten to Miami? And why is he in league with Belmont?"

"I truly don't know."

"What happened to Grief?"

"He died," said Alex flatly.

"Why did MI6 choose to send _you _after him?"

"It's classified." The hint of a scowl tugged at Alex's lips, and he requested, "I would really like to leave now, agents. I doubt that I can answer any more questions pertaining to your case, and I know that I'm not allowed to answer any questions pertaining to my work."

The two FBI agents looked at him and then at each other, exchanging murmured words.

"You can leave the station, but remain in the country until further notice," said Rogers. "And, Mr. Byrne? Will you stay a little longer to assist us?"

"Well, since I can't say that I'm eager to return to my meeting, yes." Byrne was smiling as he stood to clasp Alex's hand. "It was nice seeing you again, Alex. I never did get a chance to thank you properly for your services to my country – and to the world."

"It's okay," said Alex, flushing pink and ignoring the agent's renewed stares. "What you did for me today was enough thanks." After all, he had always preferred quiet actions to extravagant words.

Quick steps took him out of the room and into the hallway. There, he found Mr. Perez and Ms. Stewart conversing softly. A few paces away, Tom leaned against the whitewashed wall, focused completely on his phone.

However, when he arrived, their eyes snapped up. The two Brookland staff looked ready to talk, but Alex deterred them immediately, parroting his earlier statement:

"If you have any questions, I'm afraid I won't be able to answer them."

A fleeting flash of disappointment was followed by resigned acceptance.

Smoothing her dress, Ms. Stewart said, "We had thought as much."

Mr. Perez took a step forward. "We just want you to know, Alex, that we will do our best to help you. Now that we know the truth, it seems appalling that we thought so badly of you before."

"It's okay—" Alex seemed to be using that phrase a lot today. "—Everyone believes the rumors; it's not your fault."

"Nevertheless, we are serious about helping," Ms. Stewart replied. "We'll try to head off the rumors, especially when we're amongst the teachers."

Poised to answer, Alex opened his mouth, then closed it upon hearing his phone ring. A moment later, the device was pulled out, and he put it to one ear.

Just as rapidly, his hand snapped away, holding it at arm's distance. The occupants of the hallway were subjected to the tiny—_loud—_female voice emitting from it:

"OH MY GOD, ALEX! EVERYONE'S SAYING THAT YOU WERE IN A CAR CHASE! IS IT TRUE?"

Wincing, Alex recognized the voice as that of a gossip-obsessed, drama-addicted girl from his school. "Can you help me with _this?" _he asked of the teachers, motioning at his phone.

Mr. Perez blanched as Ms. Stewart smiled weakly, equal parts horrified and amused. Behind them, Tom was laughing hysterically at his friend's expense.

"I – don't think so," said the woman apologetically.

Alex sighed, glared at his phone, and hit _end_.

* * *

Thanks to the lovely Crowlows19 for betaing. And thank you for reading.

I hope this has made you smile. Review, and you'll make me smile!


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